


A Melody That Would Last Forever: Part One

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, Case Fic, Dancing, Firelight, M/M, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Christmas is rapidly approaching and Watson is cold yet again.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 37
Kudos: 61





	A Melody That Would Last Forever: Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Мелодия, которая будет длиться вечно: Часть первая](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30061287) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Hi, folks! I got three prompts into this story, which covers 22, 23, and 24 December. So we are very nearly to the end of Advent. I hope you are still in the spirit to read these! You know I love hearing from you. The prompts: Mistletoe/Eggnog/The Ghost of Christmas Present
> 
> Part Two of this Chapter will appear ASAP. Do you know that one reason it takes me so long is that when I am writing Victorian parts, I have to keep stopping to check if a word was used in that era. Yes, I am obsessed. Enjoy!

Christmas Eve was a night of song  
that wrapped itself around you like  
a shawl...  
It warmed your heart with a melody  
that would last forever.

-Aldrich, B.

1

I suppose it is a tragedy that someone has died—been brutally slain, in fact—just two days before the happiness of Christmas, but to my shame, I found myself more irritated than anything else. It was cold and the snow had not ceased and I devoutly wished that my dear friend and companion had sent the good Lestrade away when he turned up at our door, cap in hand [at least figuratively] to plead for help with a case in Golder’s Green. I perhaps was a bit curt with him.

Weariness and frost-nip had put me in a foul mood and I chastised myself for revealing my ill temper. We were not, after all, stood on the icy pavement for some frivolous reason, but in an attempt to apprehend a vile murderer. _Shape up, Watson_ I told myself. _You were once a soldier._

I stamped my feet against the pavement in an effort to warm myself a bit and tried not to sound irritated when I asked, “How are you not cold?”

Holmes flickered a glance at me. “Of course, I’m cold. But I do not let such insignificant details distract me from my purpose.”

The clear implication was that only a lesser mind would be bothered by something as insignificant as one’s toes dropping off. I glared at him.

He gave me his charming smile.

I snorted, trying not to be charmed, and shook my head. There was no one to blame but myself. I loved the cheeky bastard.

Then he leaned close and I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was about to say something entirely inappropriate. “I do hope,” he whispered into my half-frozen ear, “that your more...hidden features are not terribly frost-nipped. I have plans for later.”

We both heard Lestrade approaching from the alley at the same moment and by the time he actually appeared, we were standing the proper gentlemanly distance apart. The inspector looked even colder than I felt. And grumpier. “Perhaps, Holmes, you are wrong this time. Hopper may not be coming here at all.”

The increased pinkness that rose on Holmes’ cheekbones was not down to the cold, I knew, but to anger at having his judgement questioned.

To prevent unpleasantness, I stepped in. “Holmes is quite sure on this,” I said sternly. “History would seem to indicate that you should listen to him.”

I could tell that Lestrade might have been prepared to argue the point [the man is stubborn] but, before he could speak, we all heard the sound of a growler coming up the road. Immediately, we silenced ourselves and moved back into the shadows to watch as the passenger descended and started for the door. Unfortunately, none of us had anticipated that the driver was a cohort who, as he started to drive away, spotted us and gave a shout of warning. Hopper threw himself back into the carriage and it moved off quickly. With a whistle, Lestrade summoned up the police carriage and we all three jumped in and took up the pursuit.

There were a few moments of nerves, when pistols appeared and then the whole episode dissolved into a foot race around the just-opening market at Covent Garden. We dodged costermongers, drunk Irish basket-women, prostitutes peddling a few sad flowers to cover their true profession. Our chase barely attracted any attention from the hard-bitten market regulars and finally Holmes managed to tackle the murderer just by the Sundial Pillar in Seven Dials.

It all went quickly after that and within the hour we were quietly climbing the stairs to our rooms. Not even pausing in the parlour, we went directly to the bedroom and began to slowly undress. I was startled to hear Holmes suddenly chuckle. “What?” I queried.

He reached out to pluck a piece of stray greenery from my trousers. “A souvenir from the market,” he said.

I took it from him. “Mistletoe,” I identified.

“Ah.” Holmes smiled slightly. “Then I suppose we are obligated to observe the tradition.”

We kissed, lightly, but only briefly. Weariness drove us to simply finish changing and then slipping into bed. Any other plans would have to wait until morning. Still feeling the chill from the hours spent outside, we moved together and embraced. It was like that we fell asleep.

2

It will come as no surprise to anyone who reads Watson’s little scribblings in the Strand that I do not enjoy social gatherings. When I commented such to my companion, as we donned our tailcoats and best waistcoats, Watson gave a bark of laughter. “Yes,” he said. “I am familiar with you.”

“Sadly, Mycroft is not,” I muttered.

Watson paused and looked at me. “Then why do you accept his invitations? Which, by the way, are as rare as the proverbial hen’s teeth, since your brother is no more sociable than you.”

“Ha. I am merely unsociable, whilst he is the most unconvivial man in London. But if I do not turn up occasionally, he will only go and complain to Mummy.” Watson only smiled at me knowingly. I scowled.

A short time later, the carriage Mycroft had dispatched delivered us to his Mayfair home. [Do not mistake the sending of a carriage for an act of kindness; rather, it was merely an attempt to secure my presence.] We paused in front of the door, giving Watson a moment to take a deep breath before confronting the creme d’ la creme of London society. Although he is a better man than anyone else who would cross the threshold this night, he sometimes was made hesitant by nerves. I, on the other hand, paused merely to brace myself against the prospect of excruciating boredom.

Then we smiled at one another and I raised a hand to the door knocker.

I managed to escape my brother’s attention for a good portion of the evening, through both luck and cunning. Watson had overcome his earlier bout of nerves and was being an annoyingly social butterfly, flitting from one conversation to another. When the hired musicians began to play, Watson was a good sport, waltzing several eager young ladies around the room.

Occasionally, he would catch my eye and we would share a look.

I was standing in a shadowed alcove not far from the buffet table when my luck finally ran out.

“Your friend seems to be enjoying himself,” Mycroft said, handing me a crystal glass. “Have you tried the eggnog? Hodges is quite proud of it.”

Hodges was the chef Mycroft had poached from the American ambassador, which put a strain on Anglo-American relations for some months. I took a cautious taste of the offering. The creamy drink tasted of cinnamon and was heavily spiked with bourbon. “Watson is a man who finds this sort of thing—” I made a vague gesture around the brightly lighted room, at the chattering and gaily dressed guests. “—palatable. Appealing,” I was forced to add.

Mycroft took a careful sip of his eggnog. “And yet he chooses you as his companion,” he said drily.

“Indeed,” was all I replied.

Apparently, the host decided that he must return to his guests. Mycroft nodded at me and turned to leave the alcove. Then he paused. “I am pleased for you, brother mine,” he said quietly.

I managed not to choke on the swallow of eggnog.

When I returned my gaze to the dance floor, I saw Watson making his way towards me. His face was bright with the exercise and the bourbon. He stopped just a bit too close to me for propriety. I handed him my glass so he could empty it. “Have we satisfied the obligatory social conventions?” he asked me softly, his eyes resting on my lips.

I smiled at him. “Have you danced enough?”

“Unless you can be my next partner, yes, I have done.”

It was the matter of only a few minutes for us to bid my brother a farewell and a happy Christmas and for the butler to fetch the carriage.

Mrs Hudson was already abed, but the ever-eager Billy offered his assistance. We assured him that there was nothing he needed to do and then climbed the stairs to our rooms. Still standing by the now-closed and locked door, we dispatched our overcoats and formal attire. Even our shoes and stockings were left on the pile.

When we were down to just our shirts and trousers, we doused the lamps and drew the curtains. Only the glow of the fireplace gave us light as I hummed a bit of Strauss and we danced around our sitting room.

3

In the world of landladies, our own Mrs Hudson stands as a paragon.

On Christmas Eve, she prepared a feast for us, making up for the fact that on the day itself she would be visiting her sister, leaving us to the mercies of the Criterion for our dinner. But on this night, she fed us royally and even Holmes indulged in a plateful of excellent turkey, sprouts, potatoes and more. The finishing touch was a glorious flaming plum pudding. We lavished her with praise and gave her the several small gifts I had purchased. Holmes slipped her an envelope which I knew held an extravagant five pound note. She promised to leave breakfast for us the following morning before departing for Greenwich.

At last, we were alone in front of the fire, with port and our pipes. A mere hint of snow was falling beyond the window, a perfect backdrop for the night. For quite some time, we were both silent. I watched the flames, occasionally glancing at Holmes. “I know you will think me dreadfully sentimental,” I finally murmured, “but this Christmas seems quite special to me.”

His lips twitched, fighting a smile. “I suppose sentiment is not always disagreeable,” he said. “Despite all the evidence we have seen that it often leads to murder and mayhem.”

“Ah, but sometimes it leads to dancing in the firelight and a warm form next to one in bed.”

He gave in and smiled at me in silent agreement.

And it was then I realised that I did not want to wait until the next day to give him the gift that was waiting in the drawer with my linens. I set aside my glass and pipe and stood. Holmes raised a questioning brow at me. “I won’t be a moment,” was all I said, before leaving the room.

Once I had in hand the small box from Hancock’s of Bond Street, I suffered a fleeting moment of fear. While bespoke ring had cost me a significant sum, I did not begrudge it at all, but was it a good thing I was doing? Would Holmes—Sherlock—think me foolish to even utter such words as I had planned and to gift him with such a thing?

Then I shoved the drawer closed rather more fiercely than necessary and stiffened my spine. This was what I wanted to do and if it lead to humiliation or worse, then so be it. I marched back into the sitting room and did not hesitate before kneeling in front of him. “I have a gift for you, Sherlock. I accept that the rest of the world will never know, can never discover, what this means to us. But that does not matter. I shall know and if you accept it, you will understand what this present symbolises. Think me foolish if you will, but understand that this comes from love.” I opened the box and held it out to him.

He stared first at the ring nestled in its silken bed, then at me and finally he reached for the box. But instead of trying the ring on his finger, he merely read the inscription More than once. Then he held the ring out towards me. Was this the rejection I had feared? But finally he spoke. “I believe that you should put it on my finger, John,” he murmured .

Slowly, I did as he asked. I am a man of words, but none came to me at that moment. We both gazed at the silver ring on his finger, at the glittering sapphire. “One fixed point,” he whispered.

From outside, church bells began to toll, summoning the faithful.

It seemed as if the universe were issuing a blessing to us. To our love. The world might scorn us, but perhaps the angels approved.

After another moment, Sherlock reached out and drew me into his arms. We sat together, watching the snow fall and listening to the clarion music of the bells. At that moment, nothing else mattered.

**


End file.
